


Before I Die

by pisces_moon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Smut, F/M, Fluff as hell, Fluffy Smut, Sansa has PTSD, Sansa is aged up, rape mention, sandor is grumpy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:12:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18510892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pisces_moon/pseuds/pisces_moon
Summary: Sansa is sick of being hurt, Sandor may have been last person in her life who was gentle with her. The dead march upon them, and the thought of dying before being with him stings.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Enjoy my weird head canon that Sansa wants to have good sex with someone who cares about her before she dies

She came forth from Joffrey’s bedchambers, eyes red and face coated in snot. “He hurt you, child,” the Hound whispered to her.

“My lord husband is a gentle, honorable man,” she seethed through her teeth, but before she could carry on lying the Hound laughed. 

“Aye. I’ll bring you back to your chambers.”

The Hound placed his hand upon her shoulder and grazed the skin there, where her good husband had torn her gown. He lowered his hand to her waist where she was covered. His hand spanned near all of the width her back and made her feel truly a child again, being guided to her bed for the night. She looked up at him, upon the side of his face which was not burnt. In the torchlight especially, he was severe and brooding, both eyes dark and beard full. On this side of his face, with his black hair and smooth skin, he looked young and intimidating. _I am no ser_ she could hear him say. She took great humor in that. He glared over at her.

“Did your parents teach you it was rude to stare?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She was distinctly aware of how ridiculous she might look, hair half fallen out, snot half dry on her nose, gawking at him.

His hand lay still on her back as they walked through the torchlit halls. It reminded her so much of the night he frightened her, took her hard by the chin and made her look at his face. Joffrey became the true terror, and here was the Hound who now brought her no fear at all. Had Joffrey always been so ugly?

“If you want me to make him stop, say it,” said the Hound.

“He would have you killed.”

“No, not if I kill him first.” 

“The Queen,” Sansa whispered, “The Kingsguard, they’d kill me.” She was reeling and frantic inside. 

“I’d cut them down if they tried to stop us.”

“Stop us what?”

“Leaving.”

Sansa said nothing, and she was small and empty looking, gliding down the stone halls with her tattered dress. The Hound towered over her even though she was tall for a girl her age and met most men in the eye. She was thin, though, perhaps from grief. She was always pulling on her own fingers, adjusting her loose rings and picking at her fingernails.

In the tight, twisted staircase the Hound walked behind her and her hand grazed the space in front of him, as if she worried he might run off, leaving her unprotected. Together they arrived at her door and she turned to look upon him, an expression on her face that made him feel sorry. 

“Thank you, _ser_ ,” she said, with a sudden smirk.

The Hound went to argue and thought better of it. Wild stupidity came over him then, a thought that forgot to ask if it could be, and he took her up into his arms and held her. She was stiff, arms pinned at her sides. He felt his face flush and burn, loosened his hold on her and thought to back away. She wriggled her arms free and threw them around his neck before he could. She buried her face in his neck and he felt so many things at once, above all angry for his insecurity, hoping it didn’t show. Nervous to hug the maid, when he could take her and pull her in two, or force his way whatever it may be with her. What kept him from treating her cruelly? He wanted her, but he thought only to bring her away from her pain, to let her grow into a woman truly and to make the choice her own. But she was warm against him, and down her body he could see her long hair and the shape of her. Ten-and-seven she was now, but he couldn’t think of it. He’d stop himself every time. 

She pulled back from him and looked into his eyes. A bloody princess, he thought. How stupid of the bastard to replace her with another girl, she was pure and sweet as honey, pretty as a flower. He felt ashamed, like he desecrated her with his touch. Did she truly want to embrace him back, or was she starved for love in this place? Would she have taken it from any man the same? Her blue eyes sparkled in the torchlight, and it danced against her red hair- this light suited her well. She leaned in, startling him, and kissed him beside his mouth.

“To bed, little bird,” he whispered. 

Sansa nodded and turned on her feet, leaving him empty-handed


	2. Before I die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mention of Ramsay’s abuse/rape. Sansa is aged up to 19 here! No non-con or underage elements here.

Sansa walked the ramparts beside the yard, watching everyone below. The Unsullied and Dothraki tents that marked the fields for miles each had plumes of smoke whistling out of the tops. The snow was beaten to the ground by thousands of different feet and much of the browned plains beneath were exposed. Below to the other side of the wall the stables were mad, completely crowded with horses. A hooded man, who must have been tall as Hodor, stabled his horse. When he removed his hood Sansa was struck with recognition, even just from the silhouette of his beard and hair. She clutched her cloak in her hands. The Hound. Nervousness threatened her composure, but she was eager to show him who she had become. Lady of Winterfell. She descended stairs that were pinned to the stone, fraught with nerves, and she cursed herself. Too soon she was waiting at the stable gates, critical of her own stance, her clothes, her hair. He stopped cold when he saw her, some ten feet away.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” Sansa said, “How are you finding the North?”

He nodded at her and looked away. “Bloody cold.”

“You must be tired after your journey, I can settle a good room for you-“

“I’ve been in the North a long while, there was no journey.”

The thought of him out there in the world for the last year and some months made her jealous first, then angry at herself. How stupid of her to not leave with him at the Battle of the Blackwater. She remembered how delicate he had been in the weeks before he left, how he’d grown to be so. Her belly warmed to think of that night, and that he had not forgotten her. The Hound, who made her skin bump and chest warm with his kiss and his cloak. Was that the last time anyone had been gentle with her? The horrors that have happened to her since, the people she dared to trust that only sought to use her. If only she had left with him.

“Still, if you need a room I will find you a good one.”

“Aye,” was all he said.

Were they strangers now? He was rigid and succinct, and barely looked at her. Had she imagined all of it? Even the night of the Blackwater? She was frustrated by him, looking as though he was waiting impatiently for her leave. She sighed deeply and stared at the ground, shook her head and whipped away from him, but he called after her.

“I could use a room for the night,” said the Hound.

On their walk Sansa prodded him for details of where he’d been, and he gave her very little.

The longest sentence he said was, “I’m surprised that woman will leave you be for even a moment, especially with me.”

“Brienne?” Sansa asked.

“Aye, that one.”

In the hall of the Lord’s chamber were a dozen rooms for the custodians of the house, so that they could attend to the Lord and Lady when need be. Only two were yet empty, and Sansa showed him both. He chose the one farthest from her room, to her quiet dismay. He did not say thank you when he threw his things down, and he looked back at her when she stood silently in the door. She turned away and left.

 

 

Sansa lay awake for a short time in her chambers, which seemed much too big. On this night, she didn’t think of the horrors that occurred there by Ramsay’s hand like she often did. Instead, she thought of what it was supposed to be, if Ramsay had been someone else, someone who loved her.

 _I am the Lady of Winterfell_ , she thought to herself _, I can call on who I please_. But she didn’t believe herself until she was stepping out of her chambers and walking down the hall covered in her cloak. Brienne burst out of her room, only in linens, sword in hand.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Brienne was close to shouting.

“Yes!” Sansa giggled and urged her to hush. 

“Where are you going?”

“To visit a friend. I’ll be safe, and back into bed soon.”

“Do you need an escort?”

“It’s just down the hall,” Sansa pointed and smiled.

Brienne reluctantly retreated into her room, leaving the hallway dark and quiet again. Sansa feared choosing the wrong door and walking in on Lord Tyrion, or a maester. She stopped at the right one, reciting an old prayer and almost laughing at herself. She was giddy as she had not been since she was a girl, pulling tricks on Arya with Jeyne. 

Sansa knocked gently as she could on the door, but nothing. Again, she knocked louder, but nothing. She went to knock once more but the door swung open before her hand could meet it, and the Hound stood there taller than the doorway, holding the hilt of his sword in one hand and the sheath of it in another, ready to pull it forth and strike at his guest. He threw the sword down against the wall.

“What in bloody hell are you here for?”

Sansa stuttered, realizing she had not thought of what to say.

“I- I-“ she looked around in the dark hallway, “I’ve missed you.”

Without a word, the Hound grabbed Sansa by the arm, pulled her into the room and slammed the door. He stared down at her with dark eyes, mouth rolling around on something he felt he ought to say to her. Instead, he brushed by her and went to stand farther away, with his back to her.

Still hopeful, Sansa went to follow him but stopped when he half-turned and sneered at her. 

“I’d hope to share your company tonight, rather than be alone,” Sansa said. “You could tell me of where you’ve been since you left King’s Landing.”

“Or I could tell you to leave so I might sleep,” he bit back.

This was a great deal more rude than she thought herself capable, shutting herself into a man’s room and confronting him. She was ablaze with the notion of death marching against them, and fighting the doubt that he had ever shown her affection. She thought to stand in front of his door forever, so he could only leave once he talked to her, or shoved her aside. 

She made to walk away, but froze, knowing he wouldn’t stop her if she did. She was scrambling for anything, to get him to care for her as he once had.

The Hound looked back at her, brazen and impertinent, standing in the doorway with her hands balled into fists. Her hair was longer than it was last and braided another way, like a Northern lady. Her shoulders were wide and from them her chest was indecently larger than her tiny waist, and her hips beneath her skirts were again womanly and wide. She had gained so much color to her face and her rings no longer slid off. The girl he once knew was a shadow of this woman, who stood between him and the door, Lady of Winterfell. 

“I watched Ramsay die,” she stumbled out. She hadn’t told anyone.

“You what?”

“I set the hounds on him and watched them eat him alive,” she said, with an inappropriately calm cadence which looked a lot like shock.

“Was he worse than the bastard Lannister boy?” He had heard about the Bolton bastard, but nothing of Sansa except that he married her.

“He was much worse,” she was crying then. She loosened the ties on the sleeve of her nightgown with deftness and pulled the shirt off on that side, bearing ugly scars that she took care not to look at often. She was dotted with them, and Sandor imagined the bruises which came and gone all the while, feeling a sickness rising in his neck. “He raped me. Most nights.” 

What God cursed this girl to the fate that had befallen her? He would climb into the sky or those bloody trees and strangle them, damn it all. He should have ripped her from her room on the night of the Blackwater.

Sandor stood there across from her feeling impotent. He didn’t know that her yearning was getting the best of her now, and her anger only served to catalyze it. 

“I want you to show me how it’s supposed to feel,” Sansa whimpered. 

Sandor felt a wave of disbelief hit his body like a dozen horses. It had to be a joke, or a mistake. He watched her face to find the change, for her to start laughing, but she didn’t. Her eyebrows furrowed up at him.

“What do you mean, girl?” Sandor said.

“I’ve heard that it’s nice between two people who want it, and that it feels good for the woman if he’s kind to her. I would like to know of it before I die, or get sent away to another Lord.”

Sandor stayed silent.

“Is it true?” she was pleading with him.

“Is what true?”

“Ugh- well, that it can feel good for the woman.”

“Don’t know, I’m not a woman,” Sandor said.

“You are the most stubborn man I’ve ever met,” Sansa said, looking quite in awe of him. “When you have, um, well-“ she brought her hands to her face and then used them to try and delineate her intention, “when you’ve done it-“

“When I’ve fucked someone,” Sandor cut her off, trying to show her how ridiculous this was, or hoping somewhere he had misunderstood.

“Yes, when you’ve… yes. Did the woman seem to like it as you did?”

“A whore always acts like she likes it, or she’s not doing her job.”

Sansa stood stunned. “Come tomorrow or next we will likely be dead. Why are you being so mean?”

“Mean, girl?” He laughed, “Do you know me at all?”

“Better than most.” 

Sandor laughed at her again, but she persisted, “I knew you to be gentler than this. I fear now I made that up.”

He twitched at that and shrunk away from her deeper into the room. 

“Find yourself a pretty, young knight,” he said, cursing himself for the nastiness that coated all of his words to her. “Those are the kind that make girls feel good in bed.”

“And I’m to find another one I like as much tonight, while the army of the dead march on us? And ask to share his bed?”

“You could bed any man in the Seven Kingdoms. It’d be a mistake to waste yourself here.”

“Do you not hear me?” She yelled. “Why do you have to be so-“ she groaned and shook her head at him. “You don’t want me.”

He pushed back his hair, running his hand over his scar. The sadness in her voice made him ache. He thought of having her splayed out on top of him, what her skin looked like. “Of course I do,” he mumbled. 

She allowed no protest then, and immediately she unhooked her cloak and threw it down. She pulled off the rest of her dress, let it fall, and stepped out of it. She didn’t cover herself and moved on him like a wolf, no fear in her eyes. Only her smallclothes were left, pieces of fabric smaller than his hand, tied with ribbon around her. She brought his hand to the tie on her neck and looked at him while he held it, afraid to untie it, of what he might start. 

“Go on,” she whispered gently, like you might say to a child. No one ever spoke to Sandor this way.

He brought his other hand up underneath the softness of her hair and tugged the tie loose. She stared at him as he did, and he would have thought her unbothered if not for the quick breaths she made. This was a moment Sandor often stopped himself at, so as not to imagine any more of her. She was not the child she was two years past, and now her breasts were out, full and goose-bumped. 

Sansa dropped her undergarments and was completely naked for him, feeling powerful and riding the high of it. He held his hands by his sides, then as if by accident gripped her hip with one hand and stared down at it like he played no part.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she told him, stark naked in the moonlight and fumbling with his jerkin. He was pressing hard into his pants, and her belly was flush against him there, as if she knew to do it.

Sandor grabbed her hands from her and held her from tugging on his strings, but he did not frighten her anymore. She perked up on the tips of her feet and got closer to his face, looking down the bridge of her nose at him, pretty mouth open, lurid and wanton. He grabbed her breast in a handful and the nape of her neck with the other and she felt a rush of wetness leave her between her legs, her thighs slick with it already. He bowed his neck to graze his lips on hers, all senses coming and going like the wind. She panted and whimpered beneath him. Helpless with no want of helping.

Sandor kissed her, hard and clumsy, both of them were, but found his rhythm with her and pulled at her lip. Her hand lay where his ear would have been, but she didn’t move away. She kissed him harder until she was dangling above the floor in his arms. He was stronger than most men and in this Sansa was equal parts grateful and afraid again. Would he speak to her? Would it be quick or slow? How would he take her? Her mind raced through fear and exhilaration, her belly sore and empty with longing that she’d never known before. He swatted her hand away when she returned to pull at the lacing of his shirt. 

“My Lord,” Sansa teased, “you’ve too many layers and I none!”

Sandor laughed at her then and gave her a smile. He brought her to the bed and let her fall back on to the furs. She shut her legs together tightly, but he could see the small bit of hair peaking out, red as fire. 

He tugged to untie the flap of his pants that concealed his cock. Sansa looked up at him and sought out his features in the darkness behind his hair. She loved his beard, the way it felt on her face when she kissed him. She wanted to be seen by him, so she resisted the urge to cover her breasts. She pulled a tie from her braid and sat up in front of him, taking handfuls of his hair and fashioning it tied at the back of his head as some men did. He bowed his head and let her do it without dispute. In the moonlight she spied an unusual look in his eyes. His scar was exposed, she knew, and she didn’t care. She cradled his face in her hands and kissed him with as much grace and finesse as she could muster. 

Then Sansa felt him naked against her, thick as could be and long too, and she gasped. She placed both of her hands on it but was afraid to look. He gripped both of his hands on the fat of her ass.

He took her by the hips and flipped her over on all fours like a doll. In truth it was one last attempt to give her the grace of not looking upon him in bed. She cried out and scrambled away from him, frightening both of them. Her back was riddled with scarred welts and gashes and he understood. She shook her head and hugged her knees, retreating somewhere in her mind for a moment. “Not like that,” she said. He realized then what he’d done and wished to fall on his sword. 

“I won’t hurt you, little bird,” he climbed into the bed and dropped next to her. 

Sansa crawled beneath the furs but kept one hand out to touch him still. He stared at her and her concealed shape, a thought he once imagined in his bed at King’s Landing. She fiddled with the fabric around his chest, playing at the exposed skin. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“No reason to be.” Sandor was trying his best to be gentle, not to say anything rude. He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head. 

His chest was huge, barreled, and scarred. He pulled open the covers and tucked in beside her. It was as new to her as it was to him, this kindness, this togetherness. He knew he could not be rough with her, or make a mistake, or remind her of the bastard or it would all be lost and she would be hurt.

He got on top of Sansa, coaxing her legs open with his body. He kissed down a line past her navel, and found himself way beneath the covers. Sansa wondered what he meant to do, but felt some humor looking at Sandor wrapped in bears fur and crouched this way, much the size of a bear too.

Sandor kissed her there, taking as much of her into his mouth as he could, from top to bottom. She whined and sank into it, feeling a rush through one small point which hit her whole body. He licked her as he might lick a drink spilled down the side of a glass, tongue flat and soft. She grabbed his head and pulled him in, rutting her hips when he neared that spot. ”Sandor,” she breathed. He felt his cock leak onto the sheets.

If any goodness was brought to the world by the damnable dead army, it was this. 

Sandor slipped his finger into her, and she took it whole, but Gods was she tight. And warm. She was moaning now, soft and breathy. Then something guttural spilled out, loud enough for the others to hear. Her legs wrapped around his head and her hips shot up, and when he gazed up her eyes were rolling back and her mouth was full open. He kept licking until she pulled away.

“How did you do that?” She pulled him up by the hand until he lay on top of her, face to face.

“Here,” he said, rubbing his finger across her spot again, making her jump.

“Can you do it again?” She asked, then giggled.

“As much as you want, little bird.”

“Could I pretend it’s you who takes my maidenhead?”

Sandor was surprised by this question. Years ago he would have prodded her for this, criticized her knack for games and pretend. He mulled on it, then nodded and pressed his forehead to hers. It was so foreign to him, yet he wanted it now, to be gentle and kind to her. 

“Take it,” she urged him, tugging on his cock with an awkward hand. 

Sandor pushed both of her thighs down to open her up. He put his hips square to hers and lowered himself to her face, where he could touch her hair, kiss her cheeks, tell her how beautiful she is, if he had the nerve. He lined up then, and pressed his cock in, making her draw air through her teeth.

“Alright?” He asked her. 

Her response was an eager nod, but tears rushed to her eyes. He swiped them as they fell and stayed still inside her.

What of all of these feelings made her cry? So much pressure swirled in her abdomen, good and bad, but was it that? She’d dreamt of him so much, and what it might be like to have him this way. He had changed for her tonight, no longer the man he is in armor, but more delicate. She didn’t want him to die, she wanted to tell him she loved him. But she felt stupid for crying now, and returned to a wanting, wiping her own tears and wiggling her hips to push him farther in. His eyes closed to her movements so she kept wiggling, and running her hands all over his chest. She felt herself opening to his size, covering him in wetness, and she loved the feeling. 

Sandor leaned down to kiss her, feeling her little fingers running all over his chest and sides and stomach. She lifted and lowered her hips beneath him to take him in and pull him out, slow at first but then with more vigor, until both of them were sighing. 

“Sansa,” he moaned into her mouth. 

He might peak if she kept it up. He fucked into her, pushing with a grunt, pulling her legs up and pinning them to the bed. 

“Touch it,” he told her, nodding to her spot. 

Sansa threaded her arm between them, laid her finger there, and began rubbing. She threw her head back and he licked her throat and fucked her harder, desperate to make her feel good, trying hard not to peak. He threw the covers off of them and looked down at her, tits bouncing, legs spread high, hand tucked between them moving fast. She moaned with every thrust, and the sight of her was too much, if he didn’t stop he would…

Sansa cried out and her eyes shot open and then rolled back into her head. Sandor mumbled something like _fuck_ and dropped his head to her neck, and from there his rhythm changed, slower, and harder. She felt him twitch inside her and she rode out her peak on him while he moaned into her skin. He filled her with the stuff, whatever it was, and when she finished he picked her up and rolled her over so that she lay on top of him. He cradled her in his arms and felt the liquid seep back out onto his stomach, and a pang of guilt hit him hard. He realized that even if the seed quickened they both might die before her belly swelled with a child. And if they lived somehow, well, the child would be a bastard and he would disgrace her. 

Sansa looked up at him, and her bliss faded to see him staring at the ceiling looking quite angry. She pouted, and he left the thought to remember that she was still with him, naked, laying in his arms. 

“Don’t make me leave,” she said.

He nodded to her and pulled her closer. In minutes she had fallen asleep on him, fingers laced in the hair on his chest, limbs spilled over him. He dragged the furs over her back. He dreamt of her again and again, and when he woke he made not to wake her too, so that he could see her there one last time, sleeping in his bed. 

“Sandor,” she said, in a sweet and raspy voice.

He turned back to look at her.

“Will you bring me back to my chambers?”

Twilight peaked through the window. “Aye,” Sandor said.

Sansa crawled out of bed and snuck around the room, going to find the clothes she had dropped on the floor. He watched her from the doorway, fully dressed in his armor, hair still tied back the way she left it. He thought he must have looked like the cunt priest Thoros with his hair this way, but he knew what she did when she pulled it back. She had bared his scar in entirety for him, and still took him to bed and loved him anyway. He might wear it like a favor from her. He walked over to her and helped tie her smallclothes on while she held her hair out of the way. When she turned around she had tears in her eyes. Her brushed her cheek with his thumb and she leaned into it, closing her eyes.

“I’m afraid,” she said.

“Don’t be, little bird.”

She gasped and jumped at an urgent knock on the door. “Clegane,” the voice yelled while it knocked. Brienne.

Whoever was out there, just Brienne and Podrick, or maybe everyone in the hall, they would all see Sansa leaving his room at this time. Yet somehow, it didn’t matter. The urgency of their mortality shifted right and wrong. She knew they would see it for what it was, and leave it be. She took him by the hand, led him to the door, and opened it. Brienne gave him a nasty, horrible look, and worse when she realized Sansa was crying. She gave Brienne a small smile.

“The dead are marching on Winterfell,” Brienne said, punctuated by the great shriek and beaten wings of a dragon somewhere outside. Sansa’s little hands squeezed Sandor’s. She couldn’t stop him, she knew. She couldn’t protect him.

Brienne turned away quickly and left them to their goodbyes. 

Sandor brought her down the hall to her chambers, his arm around her shoulders. She was floating like a ghost, empty in her eyes, back in her mind somewhere. He wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t die so she could stop hurting. When they stopped at her door she was fumbling with her sleeve, then she gripped it hard and tore a piece of the silk. She took the shred of it, baby blue, with shaky fingers and wrapped it around Sandor’s wrist. 

“My favor,” she whispered. He picked her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, and kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her.

**Author's Note:**

> *resists the urge to write fluffy ending*


End file.
